


Eating us alive, again...

by solrosan



Series: Eating us Alive [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, EDNOS, Eating Disorders, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Relapse, Self-Induced Vomiting, Slash Goggles, Support Group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After two good years, Sherlock’s eating disorder flares up again and John finds out that it’s not easier the second time around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Relapse

**Author's Note:**

> This series is for M, my Brother in Arms. 
> 
> A special thanks to Laura who has been an amazing support during this journey. I could not have done it without you. Thank you for letting me unload on you, dear.

* * *

_Come home.  
Please.  
SH_

John hoped Sherlock had no idea just how quickly that ‘please’ at the end of the text had made him drop everything and rush home. If he did, he would surely misuse it, like the boy who cried wolf. John would have been more bothered by how easily manipulated he was if he hadn’t been worrying so much about what he would find when he got home.

“Sherlock?” he yelled as he entered the flat, but there was no answer whatsoever. Strangely, this didn’t add to his worry, but reduced it to irritation. If Sherlock had left, after John had dragged himself home from work….

The sitting room was empty. So was the kitchen. John continued looking in the bedrooms, and then, finally, the bathroom.

There he was, the world’s only consulting detective, curled up on the dirty tile floor opposite the toilet. John’s heart and stomach dropped queasily. Not again.... No....

“Why didn’t you answer when I called?” he asked, getting down between Sherlock and the toilet. John noted that the lid of the toilet was down and that the water wasn’t running, but he still wasn’t optimistic about the situation.

At first, Sherlock did nothing to indicate that he was even aware of John’s presence, but when John placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, two tearstained eyes looked back up at him. It made John wonder how many times a heart could break before it could no longer repair itself.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggested, getting to his feet and pulling Sherlock up as he did. As soon as they both were standing, he gave Sherlock a quick hug (more for his own sake than for Sherlock’s) and led him to the sitting room.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and covered his face with both hands. John stood beside him, hesitating for a moment, before finally beginning to rub slow, soothing circles on Sherlock back. It was hard to say if it was more reassuring or worrying that Sherlock let him.

After a while, John moved to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa. The only point of contact between them was John’s hand on Sherlock’s thigh.

“I’m glad you texted,” John whispered. It was true, even though happiness was far from what he was feeling right now. ‘Gratitude’ might be a better word to describe the feeling; he was grateful that Sherlock had texted him.

Sherlock removed his hands from his face and looked at John’s, still lying on his leg. “Are you disappointed in me?”

“No. No, I’m…. I’m sad,” John confessed, moving his thumb back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered. Suddenly unable to respond verbally, John pulled him into his arms and held him as close as the uncomfortable position would let him.

“Has it been going on for long?” John asked when he trusted his voice again.

Sherlock nodded and a lump formed in John’s throat. He rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, in sudden need for comfort and support that he didn’t feel justified in seeking. Not from Sherlock. Not now.

Nothing more was said that day, but at least John could hold him.


	2. Closeness and darkness

* * *

John watched silently as Sherlock curled up in his bed without asking for permission (well, Sherlock never asked for permission, did he?). He had forgotten, or perhaps suppressed, Sherlock’s reluctance to sleep alone, without anything to protect him from the demons haunting him. Sherlock hadn’t told him, of course, but it wasn’t hard to figure out, especially when you had demons of your own.

Quiet, John joined Sherlock under the covers, pulling him into his arms, and holding him close to his chest. He felt his friend’s heartbeat under the worn T-shirt that hid the thin torso and John resisted the urge to examine just how thin it had become. Sherlock’s tense muscles relaxed surprisingly quickly, as if he finally felt safe enough to stop fighting.

John felt punched in the gut. For how many dark nights had Sherlock been alone with his demons, unable to sleep?

How could he have missed it? In a vain attempt to ignore the guilt and the tears pressing down on his chest, John held Sherlock closer. As if it would make everything all right. As if it would make all the hurt go away.

If it would, he’d never let him go. 

Ever. 

Sadly, life didn’t work that way, but at least the feeling of slowly choking on his own tears was lifted by Sherlock’s warm body and the steady beat of his heart. 

“It’s okay to cry,” Sherlock whispered, making the entire situation even more unbearable. Why did he have to notice everything? Just because Sherlock knew he wanted to cry didn’t mean John would – or could – give in to it. Crying was what the shower was for; they both figured that out the last time.

“No, it really isn’t….”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s words were filled with guilt and sounded so small when they got muffled by John’s hair.

“Don’t be….” John’s voice almost broke, “I’d much rather be sad than ignorant and unaware.”

“You’re always ignorant,” Sherlock murmured. John gave him an amused look, giggling softly; a reflex to Sherlock’s crude wit rather than an expression of emotion. 

Sherlock forced a smile in return, turning John’s amusement into pure affection before it morphed into fear and desperation. John was familiar with both feelings and they were reflected back to him in Sherlock’s eyes. For John, those feelings always came back to the question: What would he do if he lost Sherlock, one way or another, to this? 

Whatever ‘this’ really was….

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice,” John whispered, reaching out to twine one of Sherlock’s black curls to remind himself that Sherlock had not disappeared yet. That he was still there, for a little bit longer.

Sherlock hesitated before letting go of a trembling breath, “You weren’t supposed to.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

John closed his eyes and his hand slid away from Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock caught it and they both squeezed so hard it hurt. Before his eyes started to tear up, John brought their hands to his mouth and kissed Sherlock’s.

“But you told me,” John whispered as if it was the greatest of things, trying – but failing – to meet Sherlock’s eyes, “You told me and….”

His voice disappeared and he placed another kiss on Sherlock’s hand. When he looked up again Sherlock was looking back at him. He had told him, it was a good thing, it had to be. It had to.

“What are we going to do, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock shrugged, but said nothing. Well, the question was mostly rhetorical. If there were any easy solutions, this problem wouldn’t exist. John let go off the hand and pulled both Sherlock and the covers closer. Sherlock managed to almost disappear completely in John’s arms.

“Can I ask something?” John wondered after a long silence and Sherlock nodded.

“How long have you been… purging?” The last word almost got stuck in John’s throat and he wanted to squirm out of his skin at the mere thought. No one should ever have to ask such a question, but the memory of standing outside a bathroom door pretending he couldn’t hear what happened on the other side scared him.

Sherlock’s only response was to carefully put his arm around John and hug him lightly. It took a moment for John to realise that Sherlock was comforting him all of a sudden. That was just…wrong, it was supposed to be the other way around, but he did nothing to stop it because he needed it.

Oh fuck, he wanted to take Sherlock up on the crying now.

“I love you,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s T-shirt. It had been a very long time since he had said that. Almost two years.

“You’re an idiot, John,” Sherlock said after a short silence. John heard the same sentiment in those words as in the ones he had said though and it made biting back the tears impossible.

“I know.” John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s neck and dried one eye. “You tell me that all the time.”

Sherlock snorted and John held him tighter because of the microscopic hint of, well, Sherlock. The one that wasn’t afraid of the dark.

“Should we try to get some sleep?” John suggested, no good solutions would be found at this hour anyway. Sherlock nodded; John took a deep breath, trying – unsuccessfully – to let everything go. 

After half an hour in darkness and silence John felt Sherlock’s breathing pattern change. It was surprising that Sherlock had fallen asleep before John, but maybe all the nights alone with his demons had worn him down. John was grateful Sherlock felt safe enough in his arms to sleep.

John spent an hour counting Sherlock’s heartbeats before he too drifted off.


	3. Daylight and distance

* * *

It took John a moment after waking up to remember why he wasn’t supposed to be alone in his own bed. Something was missing; _someone_ was missing.

Sherlock.

The events of yesterday came back and John sat up too quickly. The world threatened to become black and he leaned back to allow the blood to catch up with his head. That had been stupid, but maybe he needed the extra time to grasp the situation? No, there was nothing to grasp, or if it was, he wouldn’t be able to do it during these few seconds before he could get up.

Still with his eyes closed, John tried to locate Sherlock in the flat, but it was too quiet. Disturbingly quiet. The thought of what that might mean forced John out of bed and, maybe a bit paranoid, the first place he went was the bathroom – no way in hell he would leave Sherlock on the tile floor longer than absolutely necessary. 

To his relief, the bathroom door was wide open and the room empty. 

John found Sherlock, fully dressed, hunched over his computer in the sitting-room and it took him a while before he managed to connect this sight in front of him with the images from yesterday. It was hard – no, it was impossible – for him to see it, even now when he knew. Rather than ease his guilt, the insight made him angry. At himself, at Sherlock…at the world. 

Why was life hard?

“Oh, good, you’re up,” Sherlock said, but frowned disapprovingly when he looked up and saw John’s emotional state. “Don’t be like that. Go and get dressed, I think we have a case.”

“Err…. No,” John shook his head, “I have work and you….”

“You should _definitely_ not be like _that_ ,” Sherlock frown grew deeper, “I worked on three cases last month. Nothing has changed.”

John blinked, that was the stupidest thing he had ever heard! How could he even…?

“You asked me to come home so I could pick you up off _the bloody floor!_ ” John reminded him and tried his hardest to not explode, but he was very close to failing, “I’m not going to pretend that didn’t happen.”

“I’m not asking you to do that.”

“Yes, you are,” John paused and took a deep breath to calm down; nothing was to be gained by getting angry. Nothing whatsoever. Not like all that much would be gained by reasoning either, but at least he would be able to look himself in the mirror afterwards.

“Hardly.”

“What are you asking, then?” John wondered with a despondent gesture, “That I act like nothing is wrong and just let you run around London? Because that’s pretending it didn’t happen. You decided to tell me because something has changed and you’re scared.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but closed it again and turned back to the computer without answering. John wished they were back in his bed, without all the barriers of clothes and the insecurity the daylight brought. 

Naked and honest in the darkness, it felt like the title to a bad sentimental novel.

“Stop staring at me,” Sherlock muttered, “I’m not going to wither away in front of your eyes.”

“You promise?” John wished his voice didn’t sound so weak, so pleading. So close to tears. He wished he could still be angry. At least it made Sherlock look up again, with some of John’s own pain and fear visible in his eyes.

“I wish I could….” Sherlock whispered and John put his hand over his eyes. To hide Sherlock’s guilt from him and his tears from Sherlock. Hopefully he would still have a vacancy in his schedule at 10:15 so he could lock himself in his room and cry for an hour.

Oh, he looked forward to that.

“John?”

With a deep sigh John removed his hand and blinked a couple of more times to make sure the tears would disappear, well aware Sherlock noticed. He couldn’t fall apart, because if he did, Sherlock would try to protect him from more pain. That would be devastating and John meant what he had said – he was rather sad than unknowing. 

“I’m okay,” Sherlock told him when John finally met his eyes and they looked at each other with identical reassuring smiles that hid pain and doubt and fear. A reflex, a defence mechanism. Something completely unnecessary when they were just the two of them, because who were they trying to fool?

“But not fine?” John tried to specify.

“No, not fine.”

John wet his lips, trying to decode what Sherlock tried to tell him. A small hope fluttered in his chest; he didn’t dare to believe it, but Sherlock had never claimed to be okay when he hadn’t had it under control. It didn’t match what John had seen yesterday though, at all.

“How come…. I mean, why did you…. What happened yesterday?” 

What had scared Sherlock enough to tell him? Because obviously, he had managed to keep it hidden for a while and would surely have been able to do it forever and ever if he wanted to. Or had he just become too exhausted to keep on hiding it?

The question was left unanswered, to no real surprise, and John walked over to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa, leaving an appropriate amount of space between them. Daylight. Terrible thing. 

“How long have you been…not fine then?” 

“Since the case with the modchips,” Sherlock said with great reluctance, carefully picking his nails.

“That was…in December,” John recalled and his mouth went dry. “Sherlock, that’s seven months ago.”

“31 weeks.”

“You should have told me sooner,” John couldn’t stop himself from uttering the words, nor prevent the soft reprehension to seep through. He shouldn’t scold Sherlock for not telling him earlier, not even if it was meant to be loving and supporting. 

Sherlock obviously thought the same, because he turned his head with a defiant glare.

“Should I?” He wondered, voice matching the look in his eyes for a moment before he shook his head, “John, that case was terrible…. You had nightmares for eight nights, you jumped every time a car drove by too fast for weeks and you almost broke down at the crime scene in Walworth in January.”

John wet his lips again and nodded. The modchip case had been a truly terrible case, it really had, and he got chills just thinking about it. It had ego-centric to believe that he was the only one who had been affected. 

“Don’t pretend I’m the only one with secrets,” Sherlock muttered and reached out to close the computer before getting up. John grabbed hold of the back his suit jacket, making him stop but not turn around.

“Please sit down again,” John’s plead got drowned in a sigh.

“Let go of me,” Sherlock demanded. John obeyed and Sherlock straightened his jacket – even though not really necessary – before he turned around with a sigh, “Go to work. Get dressed and go to work.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere,” John started to protest but Sherlock gave him such a worn look that he stopped.

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock told him firmly, “You need be away from me for a while.”

“That’s not-“

“Yes, it is, and I need to not have you here.”

John wanted to protest again before he realised that what Sherlock said was right; they needed to get away from each other for a couple of hours. What Sherlock would use the time for he couldn’t say, but personally, John needed it to throw a fit and cry a bit.

“Text me if there’s anything,” John sighed and got on his feet, surrendering. 

Sherlock nodded.

“I’m serious, text me,” John put a hand on his arm, “We don’t have to talk about it, yet, but I’ll pick you up off whatever floor you need me to. Always. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded again and met his eyes. 

“Nothing happened yesterday,” Sherlock said, sounding as if he was trying to convince them both of this. John’s eyes grew wide.

“’Nothing’ as…as in ‘you didn’t’?” John felt the same small hope as before tremble in his chest, “Like in…in ‘you haven’t’?”

“I haven’t….” Sherlock whispered, crossing his arms protectively over his chest and taking a step away from John. Not even the silent devastation Sherlock radiated could stop the flood of complete relief to wash over John and it almost knocked him over. Sherlock had told him so he could stop him! He had called him to get help. This really was progress!

“Sherlock, can you look at me?” John asked and placed both his hands on Sherlock’s crossed arms. For a moment he even considered to take the step that Sherlock had backed away, but he allowed him at least that space and when Sherlock finally obeyed he smiled at him, “I’m so proud of you and we’ll manage this, I promise you we will.”

“I’m not really okay,” Sherlock whispered, looking and sounding very guilty, “I don’t think I’m even close.”

“I know; I can see that.”

And he really could. When Sherlock just let his guard down it was obvious; the exhaustion from the sleepless nights, the fear and the insecurity, even the shame. The shame was the worst part to see, but John was so grateful (and honoured in an odd way) that Sherlock let him in behind the façade. He hoped, he _really_ hoped, that Sherlock wouldn’t regret that he allowed him to see this part. Sherlock just looked so vulnerable, like when he had come to bed last night, when he had allowed someone else be strong for him for a moment. John promised himself to always be strong when Sherlock didn’t have the strength to be.

“How long has it been this much not-fine?” John asked in a low voice, keeping the hold on Sherlock’s arms light if he wanted to back away, flee. This time, John would let him go if he needed to.

“Almost five weeks,” Sherlock’s breath trembled and John just stared. Five weeks. No wonder he’d told him, no wonder he was exhausted, no wonder he was afraid of the dark…. Before Sherlock had the chance to do anything else, John hugged him.

“John….” Sherlock complained, but John just pressed his nose into Sherlock’s chest until it hurt.

“Shut up and let me, I need this,” he murmured and Sherlock unfolded his arms while he patiently stood there, allowing John to hug him. “We’ll get through this, I promise we’ll get through this. You’re not alone. You’re not alone…. You’re not alone. ”

Sherlock mumbled something into John’s hair and John let go to be able to look into his eyes. The vulnerability was still there, but the mask of control and distance slowly came back on Sherlock’s face again. John allowed it to happen and let his hands rest on Sherlock’s waist until he noticed how tense Sherlock became. John wanted to kick himself, had he really forgotten everything that went into this?

“Sorry,” he said and as soon as he removed his hand Sherlock backed away again. It always hurt when he did that.

“You’re going to be late,” Sherlock reminded him.

“I…. I….” John stuttered. It felt wrong to leave even if John felt that he needed the time apart more now than before and Sherlock probably saw it. “Text me? If there’s anything?”

“I will,” Sherlock promised, smirking, and he had almost managed to build up his façade again. 

“Thank you,” John forced a smile and couldn’t resist patting him on the shoulder on his way back to his bedroom. He really was going to be late if he didn’t get dressed and had some breakfast.

Breakfast.

Food.

Damn.

John stopped in the middle of the stairs. This was right back to hell, wasn’t it?


	4. We're falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of this chapter inspired by [Faller](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1m6Kd4ZiWBw) by Lars Winnerbäck.

* * *

John took a moment in the doorway to look at Sherlock on the floor, to take it in. It was a far too familiar sight but something fundamental had changed. The lingering smell of vomit was just one of the things that gave it away, but it was the only one John could put his finger on. The rest was just…there.

Damn it, Sherlock.

With a deep sigh, John sat down on the floor and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock’s head fell down on John’s chest and to John’s surprise – and startling fear, to be honest – Sherlock began to cry. A desperate and inconsolable cry that made the rest of the world disappear. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s hair when he regained the use of his voice. They had both lost and he was so sorry it had come to this; he had actually thought they wouldn’t have to deal with this part this time.

Strangely enough, John didn’t feel the need to cry – at least not now. The only thing he needed was to hold Sherlock until all the hurt went away. Or at least the tears.

“I’m here….” he whispered, “I’m here now…. You’re not alone…. I’ve got you. It’s okay….”

He remembered that he explicitly had promised to always pick Sherlock off the floor, but there was no strength in his body to do so right now. He would pick him up, as soon as he possible could. Just…not now. Instead he stroked his hair, and held him, and whispered low words of comfort. The words might seem empty, and John wasn’t sure Sherlock heard, but he meant them – every single one of them – and if Sherlock listened to just one….

Since nothing existed besides the two of them – and the painfully hard floor – John lost concept of time and couldn’t possible say how long they sat there, but when Sherlock’s crying past in to trembling sobs, every part of John’s body hurt. He had lost the circulation in one arm, his neck ached from the terrible position it was in, his legs were numb and it felt like someone was sticking needles in his back, but at least it became easier to breathe as Sherlock’s tears subsided.

They remained on the floor in silence for another eternity, the only sound being the infrequent dripping from the shower and the distant sound of the fridge’s humming in the kitchen. 

“Sherlock?” John finally whispered.

“Mm?”

“We should try to get up.”

Sherlock nodded and pushed away from John, obviously being just as stiff after an even longer time on the floor, and turned the other way to dry his eyes. John reached out for the toilet paper and handed him the entire roll. Then he forced himself to his feet with the help of the toilet and the sink while Sherlock blew his nose.

“Do you want anything?” John wondered when they had managed to get Sherlock on his feet as well, “Water? Tea?”

Sherlock nodded.

“The water or the tea?” John asked again with a weak smile.

“Tea.”

John nodded, he could make tea and ignore that it was diuretic. It was a problem for tomorrow, it was just a cup of tea and Sherlock had never been hard to hydrate anyway. He directed Sherlock out from the bathroom with a hand on his lower back, leaving him in the sitting-room as he pottered about in the kitchen. It was pleasant to move around and do the completely mindless task of making tea; it put the tile floor in another perspective and created a distance to what had happened there. The tears and snot on his jumper were painfully hard to ignore though.

In the same cupboard as the teas he found a box of saltines and took it with him as well when he walked out of the kitchen. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the mug when John gave it to him and looked between John and the box of saltines.

“Take a cracker,” John said, shaking the box as an invitation, “Someone told me it’ll make you feel better.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sherlock answered in a hoarse voice and they shared something that probably would have been a smile during different circumstances. 

“Eat the bloody crackers,” John ordered in a soft voice and sat down on the coffee-table in front of Sherlock, who obeyed – or at least took two saltines out of the box.

Sherlock scrutinised the saltines and bit off the tiniest bit possible. John couldn’t help that he studied Sherlock’s pale face and puffy red eyes with the same intensity as Sherlock looked at the crackers. Never had he heard Sherlock cry before, the closest had been sobs and tearstained cheeks. He wondered if this was a good or a bad development.

“Can you…not look at me…when I try to eat these?” Sherlock wondered with some frustration and held up the saltines. 

“Yeah….” John closed his eyes and got one of the crackers thrown at him.

“Idiot,” Sherlock muttered, but they both smiled when John opened his eyes. It was soothing and comforting in a weird way and Sherlock finished the cracker he hadn’t thrown at John.

Maybe that was why John dared asking: “Why today?”

“Why not yesterday? Why not the day before? Or the day I told you?” Sherlock reached out to take another cracker. It was a strange pleasure to see Sherlock eat, even if John tried to not look at him.

John nodded and took the answer as if Sherlock had no idea whatsoever what had driven him to this today. That it was just an accumulation of events that finally had been too hard to stand up against and this time, calling for help had not seemed to be enough reinforcement.

What had gone wrong?

John took a cracker too, they were old – if crackers could ever get old – but he hadn’t been keen of the idea of stock up on ‘purging-handling-supplies’. It had felt a bit…ominous. Now he had to reconsider and the shopping list consisted of crackers, rehydration solution, vitamins – they had been hard to convince Sherlock to take – antacids and maybe new toothbrushes and some gum. It could be the most depressing shopping list in the world, at least when you know what it should be used for.

Or maybe his imagination was just bad. 

“How do you feel?” John asked when Sherlock had finished half the tea – probably just enough to get the bitter taste out of his mouth and no more crackers.

Perhaps mouth wash should be added to the shopping list as well?

“Empty…. Nauseous,” Sherlock admitted.

A lump formed in John’s throat, had he forced Sherlock to eat when he wasn’t ready to again? Did he make everything worse? Was there really nothing he could do right? Situations where there were many things you could do wrong, but hardly anything you could do right were terrible.

“It’s not because of the saltines or the tea,” Sherlock assured him in one of his more mind-reading deductions; not that it could have been all that hard to read. John felt a smile tease at the corner of his lips and like so often before, he chose to believe Sherlock because he said what he wanted to hear.

“Let’s get you to bed,” John said as he let the smile come through and he carefully removed the mug from Sherlock who nodded. John offered his hands to help him off the sofa and lead him to his bedroom. It was more of a rule than an exception that they both slept there now.

“Sherlock, the suit…” John started when Sherlock curled up under the covers without even removing his shoes. The only response he got was a headshake and he didn’t have the energy or motivation to argue. There was no point in forcing Sherlock to get undress to save the suit. Not like it would be completely ruined this way either.

Couldn’t be comfortable though.

Well, maybe compared to the tile floor?

John changed into his pyjama bottoms before joining him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close to his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, repeating what he had said earlier, hoping that Sherlock would hear him now and maybe even listen, “You’re not alone, I’m here.”

Sherlock found his hand and squeezed it once. John took it as proof that he heard him and repeated the short sentences again. And again. And again. Until he noticed that Sherlock had fallen asleep, then he placed a kiss just above Sherlock’s shirt collar and closed his own eyes.

After lying with Sherlock sleeping in his arms for almost an hour John got up again, restless and unable to sleep. It was too late to go out and do the shopping, but there were other things he could do and armed with a bucket full of cleaning supplies he went back to the bathroom. He got down on all four and started to scrub the floor; it was long over-due, with or without Sherlock enforcing vomiting.

It took half an hour to take out all his frustration; he hadn’t even known he had it before he had started but it was more than satisfying. The result was satisfying as well, but it was hard not to manage to make the limited floor space spotless when you scrubbed it for 30 minutes.

He sat back on his heels and wiped the sweat from his forehead before dropping the dirty cloth in the bucket. Tomorrow he’d do the tub and sink…and the dreaded toilet. A sob left him but he refused to let it become more and forced himself up from the bathroom floor for the second time today. He really hoped he didn’t need to revisit it anytime soon. 

He didn’t dare believing he’d be that lucky.


	5. Told you so.

* * *

It was completely dark in Sherlock’s bedroom and the detective sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in two covers, resting his head against John’s stomach. John was standing between his legs, slowly massaging Sherlock's scalp and neck to ease his headache, fighting really hard not to say “I told you so”. Because John _had_ told him so, over and over again. He knew – they _both_ did – this would happen when Sherlock perused a case at his normal pace.

Right now, rubbing Sherlock’s face in his own reckless stupidity wouldn’t do any good though.

Instead John described, in a low voice, how he treated a 58-year-old patient with hypertension, well-controlled diabetes and slightly elevated cholesterol levels. It wasn’t close to interesting, it was one of the more ordinary patients he saw. A patient mundane enough to keep anonymous, a patient he had high hopes to never becoming interesting. He just kept on talking to keep the silence and its terrors at bay, letting his voice become the background noise that took up the entire room.

“Can I get you anything?” John asked after a short silence when he had recited his entire train of thoughts about the patient’s glucose levels. 

Sherlock shook his head ever so slightly and John stopped his hands at the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“I’d like you to at least drink something. Do you think you can do that?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll be right back, then,” John whispered. He stroked Sherlock’s hair one last time and placed a kiss on his forehead – Did he feel a bit feverish? No, he was just imagining – before leaving the room to prepare a sugar and salt solution for him. It was a small comfort in all this that Sherlock almost always agreed to drink something and John hoped it would ease the headache enough to make it possible for him to sleep. 

The kitchen was a mess and it took a while before he had located a clean glass. Their entire world was falling apart and no one (except perhaps Mrs Hudson) seemed to know. It scared John that no one noticed what went on inside 221B Baker Street and it frustrated him that Sherlock’s disorder was invisible to everyone but him. 

He couldn’t really blame the other though, because, sometimes, like today, when they were out in the world, John forgot the lingering smell of sick in the bathroom and the nights when he cradled Sherlock to sleep. John forgot because Sherlock never let it show outside the walls of their flat. All the strength and energy he managed to gather were put into keeping up appearances and he managed it all too well. So well that even John was fooled. 

Until they returned home and Sherlock collapsed like this, making reality come crashing down on them. 

John tasted the solution he’d mixed and made a face; it tasted terrible. He wished he could make Sherlock eat something solid instead, like…an orange. All he needed to do was to glance over the kitchen to realise that they didn’t have any perishables at all in the flat. 

Just as well, he figured with a sigh, as he started his way back to the bedroom. John had grown very tired of oranges to be honest, but he wouldn’t dare complaining when Sherlock actually ate something voluntarily. Even if he left most of the orange for John to finish. 

John hesitated with his hand on the light switch as he entered the bedroom, but after looking at Sherlock – who hadn’t moved since he left – he decided to leave the light off. Sherlock had his eyes closed and pure exhaustion was to be read all over him. Exhaustion and pain. 

“Hey…” John made his presence known by kissing Sherlock’s forehead and sitting down next to him. Sherlock flinched, but opened his eyes and reached for the glass; their hands trembled both when John gave the glass to him and when Sherlock handed it back after forcing it down. 

“All right?” John whispered and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited a couple of seconds before he nodded. John drew a sigh of relief; as long as Sherlock kept fluids there was no reason to worry more than usual. 

“Come here…” John arranged himself so he sat with his back against the headboard and gently pulled Sherlock into his arms, making him rest against his chest. “Comfortable?”

Sherlock nodded. John moved the covers so that they covered them both and picked up the scalp massage. 

“There’s this book I’m reading – you’d hate it, but I think it’s okay. It’s called _Gai-Jin_.” John picked up the first topic he could think of to once more fill the silence with nonsense talk; he didn’t really like the book but he had liked the previous books in the Asian Saga. For that reason he ended up getting lost in trying to untangle how the books were connected, but he knew it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he wasn’t allowing it to be quiet. It wasn’t much, but at least he felt that he did something to help.

Sherlock took a loose grip on John’s jumper and the shivers subsided slowly as the breaths became deeper and calmer. John wished he could relax with Sherlock, but it was as if he got tenser and tenser with every breath he took.

It didn’t take long at all until Sherlock fell asleep, but it took a while before John noticed. When he did, all his words disappeared and were replaced with sobs.

He buried his face in Sherlock’s hair and cried as quietly as he could, not because he was afraid to wake Sherlock – he didn’t think anything less than a cannon salute would – but because he didn’t want to hear it. It was pathetic, but that’s was why he preferred to cry in the shower. Somehow, not feeling the tears made it possible to pretend they weren’t there.

When the exhaustion caught up with him and he fell asleep, he still had his face buried in Sherlock’s hair.


	6. Cup of Tears

* * *

“Are you two all right?” Mrs Hudson had asked that question – in different wordings, of course – a lot lately. It was obvious by the way she looked at John that she knew the answer was no. Still, he lied and told her that everything was fine every time. 

Every time. 

It wasn’t his place to tell.

“Er, yeah,” he said with a weary smile. “We’re… the same as, as always.”

That answer was almost the truth, really, because nothing out of the ordinary happened; it was the same uncomfortable level of agony every day. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” She gave him a motherly, understanding smile. “Do you want some tea, dear?” 

Mrs Hudson reached out and put a hand on his arm. The maternal care in that small gesture made something twist in John’s chest and he nodded, unable to answer verbally. He was exhausted and he truly hated to lie to her.

The landlady led him into her flat and placed him at the kitchen table before she started to potter around, putting on a kettle and placing three different kinds of cake in front of him. 

John looked at the pastry with some disgust, hoping he could conceal it. He didn’t know why he loathed everything with sugar nowadays, but he was fairly sure he could blame Sherlock for it.

Sherlock’s eating disorder. 

He was fairly sure he could blame Sherlock’s eating disorder. 

It happened more and more often that John needed to remind himself that it was the eating disorder he hated and not Sherlock. He was afraid the day would come when he didn’t bother correcting his thoughts. And he was afraid that day would come soon.

“Here you go, dear.” Mrs Hudson placed the small tea cup in front of him, sitting down opposite him at the table. Neither of them took anything from the cake plate; John didn’t even try the tea or look at Mrs Hudson.

“Do you want to talk?” 

John shook his head, slowly moving the spoon back and forth in his cup.

“How bad is he?”

John stared at her, feeling as startled as he looked. To distance himself from the question, from Mrs Hudson, from everything happening upstairs, he leaned back in the chair, crossings his arms over his chest. 

“I… I can’t,” he said with a forced smile, because it was better than the alternative, “What happen… He… I can’t.”

“Then: how are you?” Mrs Hudson asked with a rueful smile, getting John’s throat to clench up. 

“It’s not… I’m fine,” John said, undermining his own words by looking away from her.

“You don’t have to be strong in front of me, you know.”

“It’s not… He’s the one who’s…” John shook his head and he took a trembling breath. He met her eyes and wondered how much she knew, how much she had figured out. His own exhaustion appeared to be visible to her, but had she noticed Sherlock’s weight loss? Did she hear their constant fighting? Maybe she had heard Sherlock’s purging as well. John really hoped she hadn’t heard that.

He really, really hoped that.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he managed to say again after a deep breath, sounding just a bit more secure this time.

“I might not be Sherlock, but I can see that you’ve been holding yourself together with string and glue for quite some time now,” Mrs Hudson said, calling his obvious lie with yet another rueful smile. “Remember what they tell you about the oxygen masks on aeroplanes?”

John shook his head because he had no idea what she was talking about. “I only ever listen to when I’m supposed to turn my phone off.”

“First you help yourself and then you help others, that’s what they say. You’re no use to him like this. He needs you to take care of yourself.”

“I’m of no use to him anyway,” John whispered, accepting defeat. Admitting to not being good enough. Not being strong enough. 

Just not being enough. Of anything.

John lowered his eyes and swallowed hard. Mrs Hudson had probably not been trying to hurt him, but she had. She was right, though, and it made matters worse. He knew it. What would happen if neither of them had the strengths to fight? _When_ neither of them had the strength to fight….

He couldn’t think like that.

He just wished Sherlock had the strength to fight some of the days so that he could take a break. No, that wasn’t fair. Sherlock probably fought twice the battle he did. John had no right to complain. 

No right to be tired. 

No right to give in, to give up. 

He just had to be strong. 

He covered his face with one hand and bit into it to stop himself from crying, but it was impossible to stop the sob and the following tears. Mrs Hudson reached over the table and took his other hand, waiting out his tears without either encouraging or soothing it. It was terrible and comforting at the same time to let someone see him cry and admit to the fact that he wasn’t coping as well as he wanted to. 

As well as he needed to. 

“Should I refresh your cup?” Mrs Hudson asked and squeezed his hand lightly when managed to stifle the tears. He had forgotten that she still held it and he squeezed back, forcing the same type of smile that he had given her every day for the last six months or so.

Fake it until you make it…or in his case, fake it until you break.

“Yes, please,” he said, letting go with some reluctance so she could pour out his cold tea and refill it with hot. It smelled wonderfully and he forced himself to blow on it and taste it. It would be really rude to accept two cups of tea and not drink any of it.

“I should go back upstairs,” John reminded himself out loud when he had finished half his tea. “Thank you for the tea… and for noticing.”

“You’re always welcome here, dear.”

“I know,” he said and managed a more honest smile. He appreciated the offer, he did, but he knew he wasn’t going to take her up on it. Sitting at her kitchen table without being able to say anything, without breaking the trust Sherlock had in him wouldn’t help. And the trust could not be broken, because it was the only thing he had. The world felt less alone when he knew she knew though, but that made it even more impossible to talk to her somehow. 

John didn’t get up from the table even though he said he should. Instead he stayed in her kitchen for two hours, cherishing every second of this brief break from the life he had grown to detest.


	7. Glass house

* * *

John made a face and let the food slide off the fork and down on the plate.

This could be the most disgusting thing in the world. No, really, it was even worse than the canned food he’d sometimes been forced to eat in the army. Nothing tasted good anymore. Every bite seemed to grow in his mouth and made him nauseous. No one had ever told him about this side effect of eating disorders. Nobody had mentioned that he would start picking low-fat products in the hopes of Sherlock eating something, that he would smuggle food into his room so that Sherlock wouldn’t see him eat, that he would feel guilty every time he enjoyed a meal and that he’d end up loathing the human need for food. 

No one had ever told John that eating disorders were contagious. 

”Is it cold in here?” Sherlock muttered as he came out from his bedroom. 

“No.” John looked up with a poorly concealed frown; Sherlock was still in his dressing gown; he hadn’t changed out of it for two weeks. Even though John wasn’t thrilled by the idea of having him run around London right now, the man needed something to do. A reason to dress and shave.

“It’s freezing,” Sherlock muttered and pulled the dressing gown closer, “What are you doing?”

“Eating,” John mumbled and put more of the disgusting food on the fork just to be able to drop it again with a sickened frown.

“No, you’re not.”

“How can you tell?” John wondered, staring at his food. “Not like you have practiced it a lot lately.”

“Fairly sure the procedure hasn’t changed to…that,” Sherlock waved his hand and walked around the table to put on a kettle. 

“Well…. I’ll show you the memo later.” John shrugged and pushed away the plate.

“We need a case,” Sherlock stated as he made tea.

“No, but _you_ need to get dressed.”

“I’ll get dressed when we have a case,” Sherlock explained very soberly, with just a pinch of irritation, and turned to face John again.

“You’re in no condition to pursue a case.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “I didn’t know I had an appointment with Dr Watson today.”

“Would that convince you get dressed?”

“No, I don’t like him.”

“You’re not exactly his favourite patient either,” John muttered and they glared at each other. To be perfectly honest, John _really_ thought they needed a case. Something that got them out of this nasty routine they had settled into. He didn’t think Sherlock should chase after criminals, but a slower, more indoory case could do them both good. Or, it would do Sherlock good and, at the moment, what was good for Sherlock did wonders for John.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock suddenly asked, tapping insecurely with his fingers on the mug. John blinked, completely surprised by the question. To explain what he was referring to, Sherlock looked at the food John had pushed away.

“I’m just brilliant,” John lied and didn’t even put in the effort to make it sound believable. He knew Sherlock was convinced – quite correctly – of the opposite already.

“You’ve lost almost five pounds this month.”

“Don’t turn me into a case because you’re under-stimulated,” John begged with a sigh, not doubting that Sherlock knew what he was talking about.

“I’m not. You’d be a terribly boring case, not worth my time.” Sherlock snorted, but hesitated before continuing: “John, I forbid you to do this.” 

“You forbid…?” John almost sounded amused, “Stones in glass houses, Sherlock!”

“Well, it’s my glass house, isn’t it? And I see no reason why we both should live there.”

“I see no reason for either of us to live there,” John said in a low voice. They looked at each other with weak smiles; John’s sad and Sherlock’s guilty. John was just about to assure Sherlock that everything was okay when Sherlock frowned and broke their eye-contact. 

“Headache?” John tried to not sound worried, but Sherlock’s hesitancy to meet his eyes again told him he had failed. 

“It’s-“

“Don’t say it’s fine if it’s not,” John interrupted. Just like John should know better than trying to hide things from Sherlock, Sherlock should have learned by now that the doctor in John had been very quick to pick up on all tics that testified to Sherlock’s non-wellbeing.

“It’s…. It comes and goes,” Sherlock admitted with a sigh and tried to relieve the pain by pressing two fingers against the root of his nose. 

“Headaches tend to do that. Have you been drinking enough?”

“Yes, Dr Watson.”

John swallowed a sigh, he hated when Sherlock called him Dr Watson in that tone of voice. Sherlock was far too good at pressing his buttons and he was not going to bite. This time.

“Fine. Fine,” John muttered and held up his hands in a small, surrendering gesture. “Sorry I care.”

“My brain is rotting of boredom, that’s why I have a headache,” Sherlock huffed, “Not because of an electrolyte disturbance, I promise.”

Just as Sherlock knew the buttons to push to make him angry, he also knew the ways to make John smile again and John almost believed his insane self-diagnosis. John shook his head at the absurdity and Sherlock forced a smile as he took a sip of the tea.

“You know, a rotting brain isn’t all that healthy either. In my professional opinion I’d say that a rotting brain is worse than a salt imbalance.”

“Possibly, yes,” Sherlock smirked and finally sat down at the table, “Is it my fault you’re not eating properly?”

“It’s not _not_ your fault,” John said with a small frown.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John shook his head and looked at the discarded plate, “I mean…it’s…. Well, just don’t be.”

“I’m sure you were more articulate before,” Sherlock tried to smirk again and John almost reached out to take his hand. Instead he just smiled wearily; Sherlock was right, it was hard to find the words these days. There weren’t any that would express all the thoughts and feelings, but at the same time John wasn’t sure they needed to actually say anything. They both knew. They had both tried, and failed, to verbalise it all before. 

“Perhaps my brain is rotting as well.” John suggested.

Sherlock snorted, but he smiled before he put down the mug. Then, without warning, he jumped up from the table and left the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” John yelled after him.

“To find a case!” Sherlock answered, “We _need_ a case!”

“Drink something!” 

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom was slammed shut and John shook his head as he got up from the table – well, at least Sherlock would get dressed and that was good. Clothes were good and hopefully the case he’d find would be a light one and they would both be distracted for a while.

He threw away the food with a grimace; he couldn’t continue like this, he had to stop. It didn’t help anyone if he wasn’t eating properly, especially if it gave Sherlock a guilty conscience. John sighed as he filled the sink to do the dishes; he could never have imagined that food would become such a huge problem in his life.


	8. Silent night

* * *

A lot of things were unsettling in John’s life at the moment; waking up from a nightmare in an empty bed and a silent flat before sunrise was just one of them. The scenarios that always started playing in John’s head when it happened were terrible, the best being Sherlock sitting on the bathroom floor, the worst having him dead with a needle still in his arm. 

Being woken by some stupid experiment or the Moonlight Sonata was always better, because it meant Sherlock was all right. Or at least alive.

Feeling uneasy, John got up and made sure to step on every squeaky floorboards on his way down to the sitting-room to warn Sherlock that he was coming. John couldn’t say why he did it, but he had taken up the habit to not sneak up on Sherlock (not that he’d ever been able to do that). Sometimes he wondered if he did it to help Sherlock fool him because he didn’t want to know the truth.

Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace and stared at himself in the mirror but turned his head to be able to look at John through it when he reached the sitting-room.

“Hey….” John said in a low voice, a yawn trying to break through his tired smile. Disturbing as it was to see Sherlock fully dressed, pondering something in silence in the middle of the night, it was still very comforting to have him standing there. Just standing there. Not doing anything…stupid.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock asked, sounding concerned and John couldn’t help but wonder if he felt busted. 

“You? No,” John shook his head, “you’re as quiet as laboratory rat tonight. It was a…blast mine, I think.”

“Are you okay?” Sherlock wondered and actually turned look at him over the shoulder as John walked up behind him.

“I’m fine,” John murmured and burrowed his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Are you?” 

“Yes.”

Ha! John didn’t believe him for a moment. He took a deep breath, inhaling the mix of cologne and sweat – the scent of Sherlock. The effect Sherlock had on him in post-episodes-situations was wonderfully soothing. That knowledge might be the only good thing emerging from the last time they’d struggled with Sherlock’s eating disorder. 

John softly kissed Sherlock’s back and wrapped his arms around his waist, closing the distance between them completely.

“John….” Sherlock moved uncomfortably in the light embrace, trying to get away from it without denying John the comfort from their closeness.

“Let me….” John murmured, “Please? I just watched one of my friends get blown up. I need to know you’re here.”

Sherlock stopped moving and placed his cold hands on top on John’s. 

“I thought you said you were fine,” Sherlock murmured and traced small circles on top of John’s hand. He tried – and failed – to relax, but the fact that he endured was the greatest sign of affection John could imagine. The sacrifice was amazing and made every struggle worth fighting.

“I lie, you lie…. It’s our thing,” John closed his eyes for a moment and just stood there, resting, enjoying the fact that Sherlock hadn’t been the one he lost tonight. Sherlock was still there, he still had Sherlock, and he let him hold him, even though he really didn’t want to.

“We should get a new thing,” Sherlock tipped his head back, resting it against John’s.

“We should,” John couldn’t help that he chuckled. It was hard to argue with that and he squeezed Sherlock’s hand lightly before he removed his arms. Personally, he wouldn’t have had anything against standing like that for the rest of the night – or at least some five more minutes – but it wasn’t worth keeping Sherlock uncomfortable. 

A trembling breath left Sherlock, but he didn’t step away. Instead he reached behind his back in and took John’s hand. John smiled.

“Going to tell me what’s keeping you up?” John whispered when they had been standing there in silence for a while.

“It’s nothing.”

“Thought you said we needed a new thing,” John murmured into Sherlock’s shirt and that earned his hand a tight squeeze. He wondered if this meant that he wouldn’t get an answer, but decided to just stay exactly where he was. If Sherlock didn’t want to tell him what he was over-thinking tonight, than at least he wouldn’t have to be alone.

“What if I can’t do it this time?” Sherlock whispered after a few minutes.

“Then….” John cut off as his mouth became dry. There was nothing with substance to end that sentence with. An indescribable panic spread through him, leaving him cold. What if Sherlock didn’t win this time? What if they lost? John preferred a blast mine to be honest, but he wasn’t going to place that thought in Sherlock’s head. 

God, Sherlock, don’t give up! Don’t give up!

Don’t give up…. Don’t…. Please?

“Then….” John tried again, wanting desperately to offer comfort – or at least a whole sentence – but all he had was suddenly the shared terror that kept Sherlock awake.

“John?” Sherlock pleaded, his voice sounded so broken that the air was knocked out of John. “What if I can’t?”

“I’ll be here,” John finally whispered, because it was the only thing he was sure of, “Whatever happens, I’ll always be here. I’ll never leave you.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand so hard that he wanted to scream, but he bit his lip to resist and waited it out. When Sherlock finally loosened the grip, there was a taste of blood in John’s mouth and tears of pain in his eyes. At least he pretended that it was just because of physical pain.

Until Sherlock sobbed.

Until Sherlock sobbed and John’s own eyes spilled over; it wasn’t physical pain that did that. He was so scared, they both were, of the possible answers to Sherlock’s question.

Tentatively, but not hesitantly, John untwined their hands and turned Sherlock around to be able to hug him properly. Sherlock didn’t protest and disappeared into his arms – it amazed John from time to time how Sherlock was able to do that – and John burrowed his face in Sherlock’s neck to not start crying. It was a good thing he did, because when Sherlock sobbed again it took a lot of strength to just keep standing.

“I’ve got you….” John stroked his back, trying hard to not pay any attention to whether or not he was able to feel Sherlock’s ribs as he did so. “We’ll manage, I promise.”

Slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he could, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John. The cold hands against his bare skin gave John goose bumps and his heart skipped a beat.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Sherlock murmured and John swallowed hard as the memories of fear mixed with the fears of the present. To keep them all at bay he held Sherlock a little bit tighter.

“Thank you,” he whispered when he was sure he had control of his voice again and he pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s jawline. Sherlock’s words didn’t comfort as much as his will to do so and John wondered if Sherlock was as eager to protect him from his demons as John was to protect Sherlock from his.

Either way, it felt oddly peaceful standing there in the dark, being afraid and insecure together; protecting each other and waiting for the sun to come and chase away their fears.


	9. Just tomato soup

* * *

”It smells delicious,” John walked up behind Sherlock and placed a light hand on his back as he leaned over the pot on the stove where Sherlock was stirring tomato soup. 

“Makes me nauseous,” Sherlock looked discontent, “but I’m hungry.”

“You used the processor with the white lid for the tomatoes, right?” John asked and reached down in one of the drawers to retrieve a spoon for tasting, not moving his hand from Sherlock’s back. 

“Rather counterproductive to give us food poisoning, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock muttered as John dipped his spoon in the soup.

“Yes, I would in fact say so,” John smiled and blew on the spoon before he tasted, “It’s not real cream in this, is it?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted and took the spoon from John to taste the cooking himself.

“So this is more or less strained tomatoes with milk and too much garlic?”

“And butter and onions, yes,” Sherlock licked his lip in distaste, “It tastes terrible.”

“No, it doesn’t,” John assured him, placing two bowls on the counter and taking back the spoon, “Are we eating together, or…?”

Sherlock kept stirring slowly and John knew his silence meant they were eating in separate rooms today. It was fine, he trusted Sherlock to eat better if he wasn’t watched and he knew he would enjoy the meal better if he wasn’t constantly trying to see how much Sherlock ate so…. 

Still, it…. 

No, it was fine. 

It was.

…just brilliant.

“Tell me when it’s done and I’ll take my bowl upstairs,” he said, once again placing his hand on Sherlock’s lower back before walking out of the kitchen. 

Reading through the comments on his blog – most of them wondering why he wasn’t writing about Sherlock anymore – he listened to what Sherlock did at the stove, forcing himself not to look. It wasn’t any real cooking left, just Sherlock preparing himself to eat and that could take anything from two seconds to three hours (probably longer, but that was the record so far). John had no idea how long Sherlock had been standing there already.

Just five minutes or so later – John was pleased it didn’t take longer because he was hungry – Sherlock placed a bowl of soup next to the computer, reading over his shoulder.

“We need a case,” Sherlock muttered when he saw the comments John weren’t quick enough to hide. John didn’t bother answering, because that would, without a doubt, result in an argument and he wanted to eat the soup while it was hot. 

“Thanks for the soup,” he said and presented one of their default smiles. It was far from genuine, but both of them used it so frequently now that John wasn’t sure he would recognise another type of smile. Smiles were even more effective to hide emotions from yourself than the shower.

“You can eat here,” Sherlock offered as John got to his feet.

“Do you want me to?”

“I’m going to eat in my room, so there is no need for you to leave as well.”

“Then I’ll be here,” John nodded; eating on the same floor but in separate rooms was better than eating on separate floors. It felt very intimate, which just became sad when he thought about it.

Sherlock disappeared with his own bowl and John looked at the door to his bedroom for a moment before he sat down again to eat his small portion – Sherlock never served anything more than what he could eat himself. He frowned slightly; even if he didn’t agree with Sherlock that it was terrible (he was fairly sure Sherlock didn’t think so either) he had to admit it wasn’t one of Sherlock’s best dishes. He finished the soup and scrolled down some of the comments before getting up to get more soup – and maybe a sandwich or five. 

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom opened as John was putting butter on the second toast and he froze. That had gone far too fast, Sherlock could not have finished a bowl of soup in that time. All alarm bells went off in John’s head; something was wrong.

Was it the butter?

The garlic?

It couldn’t be the tomatoes, could it?

He said nothing as Sherlock appeared and didn’t even bother to pretend that he wasn’t scared or worried or panicked or whatever it was he was.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock frowned as he went over to the stove and John looked down at the sandwiches since there was no way he could change the way he was looking at Sherlock, “I’m just getting more soup.”

John’s heart jumped and he looked up, the thrill he felt was probably very disproportional, but his head couldn’t put together a coherent thought right now.

“Are…. Are….” John stuttered, not knowing what he wanted to ask.

“Don’t look at me like that either,” Sherlock frowned again when he saw the new look on John’s face, “It’s just soup.”

“It’s not…. You-you know it’s not,” John had to put in a lot of effort to make it come out as something else than a whisper and he looked down at the sandwiches again to maybe, just maybe, be able to hide how misty-eyed he became. 

This was strangely overwhelming.

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock sounded very sure of this and John glanced at him, blinking to make sure the tears actually didn’t become anything else than just a threat. He didn’t know what it was, but something in the way Sherlock looked back at him made him nod acceptingly.

“Fine, it’s just soup,” John confirmed and cleared his throat. For now, it was just soup. He understood that it could only be soup; it wasn’t allowed to be anything else. It was a second bowl of soup, not a milestone or a mountain to overcome. It was just soup.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Go and take a shower.”

“Oh, shut up,” John chuckled and silently cursing both of them, “I’m not crying, it’s just soup. Right?”

“Right.”

“Do you want just-a-sandwich to go with that just-soup?” John tried to smirk – he managed quite well – and held out one of the sandwiches to Sherlock. His inside once again did a little happy dance when he saw that Sherlock actually thought about taking the sandwich, it didn’t really matter that he ended up shaking his head.

Sherlock walked back to his room and John almost collapsed against the table when the door closed. He needed to sit down; it was just a second bowl of soup, it wasn’t hope. He couldn’t let it be hope; he couldn’t let it be hope any more than Sherlock could let it be a mountain.

It was the first time Sherlock had taken seconds since before the purging had started. It…it wasn’t just soup.

It was hope and John was fairly sure Sherlock was climbing a mountain in his bedroom.

It wasn’t just soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theivoryfool](http://theivoryfool.tumblr.com/) has done [some amazing art](http://solrosan.tumblr.com/post/51289593432/theivoryfool-sherlock-and-john-oranges-and) for this chapter.


	10. Back where it started

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter contains three lines from _The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest_ ( _Luftslottet som sprängdes_ ) by Stieg Larsson. I’d say the lines don’t spoil anything, but still. I have no idea if I’ve used the official British translation or not.

* * *

John sighed at the sight of Sherlock lying on his back on the bathroom floor. At least he was wearing his dressing gown and not a suit; their dry-cleaning bill had become ridiculous this last year. Sherlock turned his head to acknowledge John’s presence but looked at his feet rather than his face.

“How long…have….” John gave up with a sigh, shaking his head.

“John….” Sherlock reached for his leg, but John walked away.

“I’ll be right back.” 

There was something very weary in John’s promise, but true to his word he came back just minutes later. He brought a pillow and the book he was reading.

“Lift your head,” he ordered gently and placed the pillow under Sherlock’s head before sitting down on the limited floor space still available. Sherlock reached for him again and this time John took his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“We have a bed. We have two beds even.” John said as he opened his book, trying to find where he had been when he fell asleep last night, “Remember your bed? It’s right next door. Big. Comfortable.”

Sherlock just looked at him in reply but John didn’t take notice. Instead he rested the book in his lap and stroked Sherlock’s hand with his thumb.

“You don’t have your glasses,” Sherlock absently pointed out after John had squinted his way through half a chapter. 

“Fantastic observation,” John sighed and rubbed his face. “I forgot them on the nightstand.” 

“You’re tired.”

“So are you,” John smiled wearily and turned over the book when Sherlock met his eyes, “Has something happened?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“When have I ever?”

John’s smile grew fonder before it became worried, “Seriously, did anything happen?”

“Seriously, no.”

“Then why are we on the floor? I thought we were doing good.”

Sherlock’s answer was to turn away and close his eyes. John squeezed his hand, swallowing a sigh. He hated why-questions, because Sherlock never answered them. Still, it was impossible not to ask them.

“Why are _you_ on the floor?” Sherlock said after a while and met John’s eyes again. It hurt John to see how honest the question was, but he took a deep breath and said with determination:

“Because.”

Sherlock almost smiled and John squeezed his hand hard.

“I’m on the floor because. Okay?” John waited until Sherlock nodded, “There is no other place I’d rather be.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock murmured.

“I love you too,” John smiled and let go of Sherlock’s hand to stroke his hair instead. Sherlock smiled shyly and turned away with a failed snort.

For a moment John considered repeating what he’d said just to see if he could get Sherlock to blush, but he shook his head at the idea and returned to the book. He squinted and moved the book back and forth trying to get the words into focus and wishing for his glasses. 

He had worked through yet another chapter and almost found the focus when Sherlock snatched the book from him with a huff.

“Sherlock….” John sighed and tried to get the book back. 

Sherlock held it out of his reach, “Where were you?”

“What?”

“In the book, on the page, where were you?”

“Mid-page-ish?” John gave Sherlock a confused look, “Why?”

“You’re going to get a headache if you persist on reading without your glasses,” Sherlock muttered and skimmed the page, frowning as he did, before he started to read out loud: “ _’He had employed all his skills to persuade her to tell them, at the very least, where she lived. But in interview after interview that damn girl had just sat there, silent as a stone, staring at the wall behind him.’_ ”

John was stunned, but as Sherlock kept on reading a smile crept over his face. He leaned back against the wall and just listened to Sherlock’s voice as it told the story without as much as a snarky remark about the fictional law-enforcers. 

It was surreal.

“Do you want something to drink?” John interrupted after almost two hours of reading when Sherlock’s voice started to sound hoarse. 

“It’s just four pages left of this chapter,” Sherlock said after looking ahead, “It can wait.”

John brushed a lock of hair from Sherlock’s forehead and placed a kiss there, “Or I can go right now. Tea sound good?”

Sherlock nodded and, with a lot of effort, John got to his feet.

“I’m too old to sit on the floor this long,” he muttered.

“That’s why _I_ am doing the reading,” Sherlock smirked.

“I’m not that much older than you, you know.”

“I’m not the one suffering from early symptoms of presbyopia and refuses to wear my glasses,” Sherlock said with an innocent smile and grabbed John’s trouser leg just as he was about to leave, “Put sugar in my tea.”

“Sure,” John’s heart had skipped a beat at that request and he smiled on his way to the kitchen. When he came back he found Sherlock sitting up, flipping through some pages in the beginning of the book.

“Do you want me to tell you what’s happened?” John offered and gave Sherlock one of the mugs.

“I couldn’t care less about these characters,” Sherlock muttered and blew on the tea as John sat down next to him, “Should I continue?”

“You should do recordings for audio books,” John teased.

“Yes, that wouldn’t be a colossal waste of time at all.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to find his way back to where they had left the book.

“The consumers of audio books wouldn’t think so,” John murmured and blew on his tea with a smirk. Sherlock snorted and picked up the reading, pausing at odd places to drink his tea. John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and forgot all about his own tea.

“How are you doing, Sherlock?” John interrupted in a low voice when Sherlock had finished the chapter. “Bathroom floor aside.”

“Better,” Sherlock admitted after some hesitation and turned his eyes from the book to John, “Not okay, but….”

“But better,” John finished the sentence for him, his words barely audible. “That’s good. That’s…. So this is just because….”

Sherlock looked back at the book and shrugged, turning one of the pages back and forth, with an insecure expression. “Sometimes I don’t want to get better….”

“What? Why?” John stared at him, his mouth open in shock. His chest filled with panic, grief or anger – he couldn’t tell which – as Sherlock took a deep breath and rubbed his face; the detective looked mortified by his own confession.

“She- Sherlock, look…look at me. Please?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Then…talk to me?” John put down his mug and took Sherlock’s wrist, “Say…something?”

Sherlock looked down at John’s hand and placed his own on top of it.

“I’m afraid that….” Sherlock shook his head and wet his lips before starting again, “I like sleeping in your bed. I like that…when you have a nightmare, I can wake you and I can help. I like that you, that you…. I…. Sometimes I get afraid that it’ll stop if I get better and I’d rather have all this than….”

Shaken, John interrupted him with a hug.

“Do- do you listen to me?” he whispered and Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. “You’re the single most important thing in my life and you have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Last time-“ Sherlock mumbled but John shook his head and cut him off.

“Last time you stopped sleeping in my bed because you claimed I snore.”

“You _do_ snore.”

“Do not. And I don’t care about having my bed to myself, okay?”

Sherlock nodded and John held him closer.

“I want you to get better because I want you to get better, not because I want my bed back. I actually sleep better with you there. I won’t leave. I won’t. I’m not here because I feel I have to; I’m here because I want to.” 

Sherlock pulled away, avoiding looking at John who wondered if Sherlock had heard him at all.

“You’re the great Sherlock Holmes, how can you not know this?” John whispered, half-teasing, half-desperate. Sherlock shrugged and John cupped his hand round his cheek, raising his head so their eyes could meet.

“I’ll remind you.” John said with a soft smile, “I’ll remind you every day if I have to.” 

Sherlock looked lost for a moment before clearing his throat and picking up the book that had ended up on the floor, “Can we just…finish the book?”

“Can we go to the bed?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head and finished the cold tea with a grimace before starting to read, “ _’Judge Iversen banged his gavel at 12.30 and decreed that district court proceedings were thereby resumed.’_ ”

John sighed and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, the surprise interrupting the reading for a moment. Smiling, John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and took his hand. As he dozed off to the sound of Sherlock’s voice John realised that they were probably going to be okay this time too. 

He was almost sure of it.


	11. Blood oranges aren't real oranges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just happened yesterday. It wasn’t supposed to be, but here it is. It proves once and for all that I can’t be trusted when I say that I won’t write anything else about this.
> 
> I’m still posting the epilogue today as planned.

* * *

“A little help here?” John said as he carried three bags of groceries into the kitchen. 

Sherlock turned away from the window but didn’t let John’s return disturb his violin playing. It was a familiar melody, but John couldn’t remember its name. Sherlock followed him to the kitchen and for the longest time John just glared at him and the detective smirked.

“Did you buy any oranges?” Sherlock finally asked, abruptly taking the bow of the strings, placing both violin and bow on the table next to the grocery bags.

“Yeah, here you go,” John went through the bags and handed him a net with oranges, “It’s blood oranges though. The normal ones didn’t look good.”

Sherlock frowned and dropped the net on the table as if it had burned him.

“Come on,” John sighed and opened the fridge, thoroughly examining the agar plates Sherlock had started to keep there again. “It’s almost the same.”

“No.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No.”

“Fine,” John muttered, taking back the oranges, “I’ll give them to Mrs Hudson. I’m sure there’s a blood orange-soufflé or something she can make.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” John frowned thoughtfully, “Perhaps she can do something else with them?”

“Or I can just eat them, I suppose.” Sherlock dropped down on the nearest chair.

“How magnanimous of you,” John handed them back to him and began putting the food into the fridge, “Oh, Molly says hi, I ran into her at lunch today.” 

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Sherlock wondered without looking up from the orange he had carefully started to peel.

“You know she’s pregnant?”

Sherlock glared at him, obviously deeming him an idiot. John sighed with a smile and threw an empty bag at him – it almost hit him.

“They haven’t found out,” John said as he started on the last bag.

“Why not?”

“Want it to be a surprise. Bit of a mystery,” John shrugged.

“It’s going to be one of two things,” Sherlock snorted, “That can hardly count as a huge mystery.”

“That’s narrow-minded of you.”

“I suppose you can argue there are more alternatives,” Sherlock admitted, “but it’s not like they are going to notice that with an infant.”

“That’s not what I meant,” John reached for the empty bag again and made a new attempt to throw it at Sherlock. He was just as close – or just as far from – hitting him this time.

“What did you mean, then?”

“That every mystery in the world doesn’t have to live up to the Sherlock Holmes-standard,” John chuckled, starting to clean up Sherlock’s peels. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put an orange piece in John’s mouth.

“You’re right,” John said in slight disgust, “This _isn’t_ close to a real orange.”

“I’m always right,” Sherlock smirked and reached for some paper towels.

“No, you’re not.”

“Perhaps not, but I _do_ know oranges.”

“Write it up and put it next to your analysis of tobacco ashes,” John teased, throwing away what was left of the blood orange. “Tea?”

“I want real oranges.”

“Don’t pout,” John smirked. Sherlock glared at him and got to his feet, picking up both the violin and the melody again.

John took that as yes to the tea and put on the kettle. Humming along with Sherlock’s melody he put sugar in one of the mugs and realised something; earlier today when he’d answered Molly’s “How are you and Sherlock?” with his usual “Fine”, he probably had been telling the truth. 

No, he had been telling the truth.

The insight took his breath away and he looked at Sherlock who had walked out to the sitting room. Quietly John followed with the tea, placing Sherlock’s mug on the mantelpiece.

“I’ll go buy you real oranges when I’ve finished the tea,” he whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the violin, and managed to kiss Sherlock’s cheek.

The melody got slightly interrupted, but Sherlock smirked and kept playing. John sat down in his chair, cherishing the sound of music in the flat again. They were back to their version of normal. 

For now.


	12. Epilogue – Putting on the oxygen mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John talked to Mrs Hudson he found a support group in an online community for family and friends of people with eating disorders. These are his posts there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is John’s place to vent. Everything is written with love, even though it contains self-pity, martyr tendencies, utter frustration and refusal to understand eating disorders and people suffering from it. It’s still strongly self-censured – let’s face it, he lives with Sherlock and can’t really trust his privacy.

* * *

**20 th March** (16:02)

Hi.

I’m new here, so this is my introduction. My name is (not really) Hamish and I (really) live in London. I’m a former army doctor, was in Afghanistan in 09/10, and now I do locum work where I’m needed and/or wanted. For various reasons a more permanent solution has never been an option.

I live with a man (going to call him S) who suffers from an eating disorder. He hasn’t been properly diagnosed, because he refuses, but since I’m a doctor I know the medical term is “That bloody thing with damn tendencies”. It could also be anorexia nervosa with bulimic tendencies, but I’m not in a position to tell.

He has been struggling with this since forever, I think, he doesn’t want to tell me and I’ve stopped asking. This is the second time we’re going through it together, we had a little more than two good years in between. He has been purging since September, using emetics – idiot! – but it all started last December. So we’ve been at this for a while now.

That has to do for today.

Dr H.

**36 comments**  
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**12 th April** (19:24)

I’ve been reading here a lot since I last posted and the welcome you all gave me was overwhelming. Thank you so much, I don’t really know what to say. 

Neither of us can really handle this right now, I suppose that’s why I’m here. He’s purging a lot right now, not binging for all I know, just restricting and purging. He keeps hydrated ( _I_ keep him hydrated), but that is all. I try telling myself that it’s at least something, but it’s really nothing.

He didn’t purge at all before he met me – hurray for me, right? He didn’t want me to worry after I’d found out about his (at the time) latent eating disorder. So he ate when he didn’t want to and ended up purging. If anyone knows how to get rid of that guilt, please….

Dr H.

**17 comments**  
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**14 th April** (09:28)

I hate the bathroom. It’s the worst part of the flat. If I didn’t hate the room so much because of what I know happens there I’d love the shower. The shower is amazing. It’s going to sound stupid, but in the shower I can pretend that I’m not crying. I know I can’t hide my crying from myself, but I have this idea that if I can’t feel the tears on my cheeks, it’s not really crying.

The fact that S can’t hear me is just pure bonus.

Dr H.

**5 comments**  
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**10 th May** (10:06) _**Edited: 10 th May 12:41**_

He won’t let me touch him anymore. He has never been keen on me touching his stomach or his hips (and he’s ticklish on the inside of his knees, so that’s always off limits), but now he doesn’t even let me take his hand or stroke his hair. 

So I can’t hold him, but he’s scared of the dark and he can’t sleep. I used to hold him until he fell asleep. It made him relax (made _me_ relax). Now he lies next to me, night after night, and I can’t get him to sleep.

Any tips?

Dr H.

EDIT: No, he’s not scared of the dark when he’s not not-okay.

**49 comments**  
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**17 th May** (21:12)

I’m having a bad day. He’s having an even worse one. I can’t help him, he won’t let me. 

We fight constantly, about everything that isn’t his ED because I would probably need to put a bullet through my head if I yelled at him about that. We fight about bills, about his work, about my work, about his violin playing and about my choice of tea. It’s about taking out the trash, leaving things lying around, our friends…. We stand on opposite sides of the room and yell at each other until one of us loses breath and leaves. 

We’re both so frustrated and we both know it, but the things I say…. I want to hurt him so bad and I can see that I succeed. I think he wants to hurt me just as much. Hurt me so that I give up and just leave him alone and the truth is, I want to do that. When we argue, I really want to leave and never, ever see him again. At those times I think that no S would mean no problems. 

Then I remember that without him, I would probably have put that bullet through my head already. No S would also mean no me. At that realisation I always hate myself and that’s why I’m writing now. I think. We fought about toilet paper today. 

I hate us both.

Dr H.

**51 comments**  
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**25 th May** (10:17)

I hate food. I hate the human need for it. I hate every single calorie in the entire world. Except the ones S eats and the ones he keeps down. Those calories I love. Did you know that there are about 60-65 calories in an orange? That’s if you eat a whole one. He never does.

I’ve been having real trouble eating for a while. It’s not as bad as last time when I actually stuck my fingers down my throat, but bad enough for S to notice. Some days ago he told me that I’ve lost a lot of weight but that’s a normal side-effect to not eating, I suppose. He more or less told me to stop being an idiot and all I wish is to be able to tell him the same.

I know my hang-ups aren’t the same as his hang-ups, but I just feel that if I can shape up and eat properly even though I don’t want to, if I can stop being an idiot, why can’t he?

Dr H.

**22 comments**  
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**1 st June** (20:51)

_**Deleted post**_  
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**1 st June** (21:19) 

Fuck…. I didn’t mean that.

**16 comments**  
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**2 nd June** (03:41)

I can’t sleep, I feel sick. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. Who says something like that?

He’s going to die. He doesn’t even drink properly right now. If he doesn’t stop this, he’s going to die and I can’t stand seeing him like this. I can’t watch him slowly kill himself this way. I don’t think he wants to die, but I’m not sure he wants to live either.

We had a discussion – or argument – last time, where I accused him of committing the slowest suicide in history and he made it perfectly clear that if he wanted to kill himself he knew of more efficient ways. I’m so scared he’s going to prove it, that he’ll wake up one day and overdoes because he can’t stand what we have right now.

He’s a former addict (I use the term ‘former’ very loosely) and I suspect the drug use and the ED comes from the same place. If that’s the case, what will stop him from changing from one to the other? The worst part is, sometimes I wish he would, because I know how to deal with ODs but clearly not with EDs. 

I really don’t want him to die, I didn’t mean it.

Dr H.

**92 comments**  
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**5 th June** (19:32)

Thank you. For the comments and the mails and the support. I don’t even know how to start. 

Thank you so, so much.

Dr H.

**47 comments**  
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**13 th June** (13:37)

I’ve seen some of you telling stories about your ED:ers eating rituals, so I thought I’d share how S eats oranges. I had never seen him eat an orange before November, but now I think we might be the biggest consumers of oranges in England. 

He takes four or five at the time, peels _all_ of them with meticulous precision (everything in his life is done that way, it’s impressing and unnerving at the same time) and then he takes three pieces from each orange, lining them up in a straight line. After that he eats every second piece (starting from the left) before eating the rest of them.

The rest of the five oranges he leaves for me and frankly, I would be happy if I never saw another orange in my life! I’m that tired of them! At least it’s not bananas, I hate bananas. If anyone knows what to do with three oranges or so, please tell me. 

He leaves the peels everywhere, so you know, anyone out there with kids who knows how to make him pick up after himself…I’d take advice on that too.

Oh, I forgot to tell you, the ‘lullabies’ works, I read scientific research articles to him until he falls asleep.

Dr H.

**18 comments**  
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**2 nd July** (18:36)

Inspired by Sai28’s story I suggested to S that he should come with me to do some grocery shopping. The look he gave me…. 

I think I can count on my left hand the times S has done the groceries since we moved in together and I’ve been more than a little annoyed by his laziness. After re-reading your story Sai, I’ve started to wonder if the ED is why though. Never imagined supermarkets could be scary, but maybe they can? I know I still struggle with some things from my time in Afghanistan (sounds mostly). I don’t want to place him in a situation where he can have a panic attack.

Should I bring it up again?

Dr H.

**38 comments**  
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**7 th July** (09:30)

I feel isolated. It’s my own fault, but I can’t seem to talk to my friends anymore. Their lives are filled with, well, life; love and work and children and cars that won’t start and holiday plans and football and that new little restaurant at the corner. My life is filled with calorie counts and hiding food (we both do it, it’s pathetic) and obsessive cleaning of the bathroom floor and night terrors and betrayal and guilt.

I hate lying to them, so I just avoid them instead.

Dr H.

**14 comments**  
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**15 th July** (11:05)

Does it help knowing why? 

Sometimes it feels like if I just knew the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ everything would be better. That I could help. That I could, I don’t know, heal it? Knowing the reason he started to purge (me!) didn’t really lead to anything, but I still want to know it all. Everything.

Don’t I have the right to know why we live in this hell?

Dr H.

**19 comments**  
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**21 st July** (09:47)

Yesterday we fought about socks; his socks, which he spreads all over the flat. We stood in the kitchen and yelled at each other for almost an hour, I think, before I threw a mug on the floor and he left.

At around 3 I woke up when S crept in under my covers and held me and allowed me to hold him back. It’s strange how happy it made me; it’s the best sleep I’ve had for weeks. 

I just wanted to share something happy for a change.

Dr H.

**19 comments**  
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**3 rd August** (20:07)

This is a conversation we have once every third month or so, when I feel brave:

Me: How about seeking some professional help?  
S: Like your therapist?  
Me: Not my therapist, but someone who has experience with EDs.  
S: No.

Today though, it went like this.

Me: How about seeking some professional help?  
S: Like your therapist?  
Me: Not my therapist, but someone who has experience with EDs.  
S: You’re the only help I need.

It just dumbfounded me completely; I still haven’t recovered. I don’t believe him, I don’t believe I can provide all the help he needs, but I think he believes it. The trust is just overwhelming, not to mention frightening. I wish I could be enough for him, but I don’t think I can.

He’s a manipulative bastard though, he really is, and he knows a comment like this will shut me up for weeks. When the emotional roller-coaster stops, I’ll just have to try again. Right?

On a similar note, I’m flattered by all the questions you guys have been sending my way and I’ll get around to answer them, I will, but I’m not really the right person to ask. There are far better – and more objective! – doctors than me out there. When it comes to this I’m just as lost as you are, believe me, so don’t take what I say as medical advice (except the importance of hydration). Your advice is just as good (or even better) than mine.

Dr H.

**20 comments**  
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**5 th August** (18:50)

Do you pretend that you have normal lives sometimes? That life doesn’t revolve round food or calories or any of it? We do.

S curls up beside me on the sofa with a package of salty crackers and two mugs of tea, wrapping his blanket around us. It’s like becoming a child again, building a house of pillows and blankets and hide from a world that doesn’t understand. Then we tell stories about our life from before we met. I talk about my time at uni and Afghanistan, S shares stories about his work and the – to me as an outsider – strange traditions of his public school.

Sometimes, when we sit there, I forget the reality we live in and we’re honestly happy under the blanket, I think. It’s such an easy trick (highly recommended). It’s the illusion of a normality we never experience when S is well, but I actually enjoy it. Is it terrible to say that I’ve missed it from the last time around?

Dr H.

**42 comments**  
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**29 th August** (15:21)

He just took a second bowl of soup! The soup isn’t all that amazing – tomato soup, he used milk instead of cream, too much garlic – but that really isn’t the point. Last time he had seconds…I can’t even remember when that was. Probably sometime before the purging started. 

Speaking of, I don’t think I’ve told you guys, I haven’t caught him doing that in a while and he says he doesn’t anymore. Am I a complete fool to trust him? Has he just become much better at hiding from me? I mean, I do still go to work for most parts of the day – god knows we need my income since he’s not fully capable to work (he’ll kill me in my sleep if he reads this).

I’m so happy that I can’t be happy because I’m scared, does that make sense? I’m so happy right now that I’m afraid for the moment reality will hit and it all just crashes down again. Because it’s going to be completely horrible. The higher you rise, the harder you fall, right?

I hate hope.

This was all very incoherent…. I think.

Dr H.

**23 comments**  
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**18 th September** (20:06) _**Edited: 19 th August 09:31**_

Did anyone see the story about EDs on the news just now? They talked about how the average age for girls with EDs (they mentioned AN and BN and misspelled nervosa) has gone down. Then it went on like it always does with beauty ideals and pressure and all of that.

I _hate_ that simplified version of the truth. ED has taken over my life, but that description of reality doesn’t describe the one I’m living in. Even though I don’t know why S struggles with this, I’m fairly sure it’s not because he thinks he’s fat or ugly. Nor is he a teenage girl! He is a soon-to-be middle age man and he’s fighting so hard and this constant labelling it as a young girls’ problem doesn’t make it easier! 

I threw the remote at the telly by the way. That’s how grown up I am.

Dr H.

EDIT: I didn’t mean to offend anyone, I’m sorry. I know that the picture they draw is the reality for a majority. I’m just saying it’s frustrated to have this one-dimensional view of it.

**137 comments**  
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**25 th September** (19:02)

I talked to our landlady today, she is the sweetest woman and the one who suggested I’d seek some help for myself. She sends her love and so do I.

I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Dr H.

**14 comments**  
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**13 th October** (17:05)

We had a talk last night. Few things prompt a conversation as much as finding someone on the bathroom floor, though I think S spends more time on floors in general than the normal British adult. I don’t really know what to do about the conversation, I feel so strange about it. 

I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to write a summary of it that makes sense, it just doesn’t work. I don’t know what to say. He said he’s getting better, but he also said he doesn’t want to because he’s afraid I’ll stop caring about him.

How can he think that? He’s supposed to be the most brilliant man I know. I’m so angry with him! I’m even angrier with me for making him believe something like that. Honestly, I don’t know if I want to hit him or hug him. I feel so stupid for not realising it even though I’m aware that I couldn’t possibly have known.

Despite all of this, I feel relieved. At ease. He talked to me, he said he was getting better and he gave me a problem to fix. I have no idea what I’m talking about. Quite frankly, I might still be in shock.

Just as a side note, I’m too old for spending most of the night on the bathroom floor. Actually, I don’t think anyone can be young enough to sit on a tile floor for eight hours. It’s just insane to spend that much time on a tile floor, on any floor for that matter. 

That’s my professional opinion!

Dr H.

**45 comments**  
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**27 th October** (18:49)

We went grocery shopping yesterday!

He complained the entire way there – no exaggeration – that it was boring and he refused to go inside when we got there. We had an absurd discussion where I promised that he didn’t have to touch anything and that I wouldn’t let anything hurt him, he said something about inane objects couldn’t hurt him and I ended up comparing groceries with bullets to make a point I’m sure wasn’t worth making. 

I wanted to tell him that it was okay to be afraid of inane objects because they can hurt you, but I think I told him groceries could come flying at him at great speed and kill him. Is that very bad? It made him go inside though, probably to shut me up before I said something worse.

I read the shopping list to him and told him to just follow me and we’d be done soon. He told me that if I’d dragged him there, he was going to pick the tea because I, apparently, can’t and that he’d meet me at the checkout. I thought he was trying to prove something, but he left and we met up at the checkout. He was exhausted, it was only 15 minutes (20 minutes tops), but he was drained and he went to bed as soon as we got home. Still, I think he was satisfied. And proud – _I’m_ proud.

He came out around 7 p.m. and we made breakfast for dinner! With eggs and bacon and beans and toast and the tea he had picked out. He didn’t touch the bacon, but he ate the rest.

Dr H.

**31 comments**  
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**7 th November** (19:51)

I don’t know what we are to each other anymore. I don’t mean that as a bad thing, it’s just how it is.

Dr H.

**65 comments**  
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**20 th January** (15:47)

S did something stupid today. I don’t mean ED-stupid, but something completely moronic! Not going to tell you what he did – you wouldn’t believe it anyway. It was one of those times when I just wanted to snap his neck.

The problem is, I can’t be mad. I want to be mad. I want to be so angry and yell at him. I haven’t been this angry with him for months, probably not even a year. I haven’t allowed myself to be this angry with him and every time I manage to get mad at him for this (stupid, stupid, stupid) thing I realise that I can be angry with him again and that makes me happy.

My happiness is ruining my anger and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Dr H.

**14 comments**  
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**16 th February** (18:35)

I ran into a friend today. It was great, haven’t seen her in a while (my fault more than hers, I suppose). She asked how everything was and I said that everything was fine, because, you know, you’re supposed to say that. 

Then, when I got home, I realised that everything actually is fine.

We’re fine.

He’s fine or at least getting there.

I think we made it.

Dr H.

**89 comments**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a huge thanks and all my love to Laura and M, without them I probably wouldn't have made it through this series alive.
> 
> Additional thank you to theivoryfool who made [this](http://solrosan.tumblr.com/post/54202157594/theivoryfool-sherlock-and-john-this-is-a-gift) and [this](http://solrosan.tumblr.com/post/54442169823/theivoryfool-sketch-sherlock-and-john-this-is) as visual summaries of the fic.


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